The Birthday Gift
For his eleventh birthday, Christoph’s mother took him go-karting.
He’d never driven anything before. And Christoph found himself exhilarated by the rush of speed. He liked how the ground zoomed beneath him, slowly if he looked straight, and blurring fast if he looked to his side. He smiled at how he commanded the wind with the weight of his foot. As his courage grew he pushed the accelerator harder. The engine whined and he felt like he might fly away. And although he was firmly in last place, he couldn’t hide his joy as he rounded the track.
On his final lap, grinning with the intensity of a birthday boy, Christoph wrecked. After careening into a hay bale, he spun out. As he began to correct himself another driver collided into his side, rolling Christoph’s go-kart. The tumbling made his arms flail. His head whipped from one shoulder to the other. Once the terrible motion ended, his left arm lay pinned, crushed under the searing weight of the machine.
Even after a regimen of surgeries, grafts, and therapy, the arm remained a shameful creature. Patches of skin looked like wet paper towel. Grooves of lost muscle eroded down to the bone, forcing his hand to hook in on itself. It cradled toward his chest. Below the elbow the arm was useless.
An executive from Super Kart Family Speedway mailed Christoph a formal letter. It was printed on luxurious cotton fiber paper, a fetching signature plumed at the bottom. The letter explained how Christoph’s experience was unique. According to the executive, most children did not leave Super Kart Family Speedway with gnarled limbs. In fact, he included a pie chart showing how statistically children were more likely to be mauled by bears than suffer horrific life-altering trauma from go-karts. To show his endearing appreciation, the executive included a badge naming Christoph a lifetime MVP. As an MVP he was entitled to: unlimited laps and track time, a priority parking pass, and a commemorative drink cup (with complimentary soda fountain refills). For good measure he also included a coupon redeemable for 1,000 game tokens. He finished his letter with a postscript: “And a little secret between an executive and an MVP, use these tokens on the Skee-Ball machine. They have the highest token to ticket ratio!” Despite the executive’s grand gestures of kindness, the pie charts and the parking pass and the cup and the tokens, Christoph was still angry.
He stood shirtless before his bedroom mirror. He followed the length of his healthy arm. Then he stared at his other limb. How incongruent he looked. Incomplete. He was ashamed of his body. He looked at the claw of what was his hand and remembered how it once held a steering wheel. How it once made the ground obey. Christoph stared at his frozen fingers. He told them to move. They would not obey.
At sixteen Christoph refused to go outside. He was tired of the stares, the way people glanced at his arm and whispered to one another when they thought he wasn’t looking.
His mother decided to buy him a pet for Christmas. She thought it would help if Christoph had something to love, something living, to distract him from his handicap, from people.
In the pet store she was greeted by the distinctive smell of bird feed and hamster shavings. Walls were stacked with rodents in clear boxes, lizards bathing under heat lamps, a wilderness of dazzling fish. The animals seemed forlorn to her. They looked like forgotten trophies. She perused a shelf lined with ferret cages. She was amazed that such a slender thing could produce such a sharp odor. The store owner inquired about her visit. After detailing the particulars of her son’s situation, repeating several times his loneliness, she added: “It’s important he has a companion.”
The owner nodded and said he had the perfect animal. “Twenty years in this business, this is the smartest thing I’ve ever seen. He’ll be a friend for life.” Near the back of the store he took her to an impressive cage that housed a small grey parrot. “Tell him a question,” the owner said. “Go on. Ask him anything. I’m telling you, this bird’s a genius.”
She’d never talked to a bird before and this made her timid. She couldn’t think of a suitable thing to ask. “Hello there. How are you?”
The bird jumped from his perch and gently clawed himself up the side of the cage. He nuzzled his beak through the bars. “Fine, thank you,” the parrot told her. “Y tu?”
“See. What’d I tell you? Bird’s brighter than his tail feathers.” The owner reached his fingers in the cage, fed the parrot a treat.
Indeed, she was amazed at this feat. But she was curious why he would sell a bird this unique, this intelligent. When asked, the owner glanced side to side; he leaned in. “Between you and me, I think he makes the other animals feel inferior.” He tilted his hand like he was tipping a scale. “Sad animals aren’t the best for business.”
“Sorry,” the bird said. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
“You’re okay, little guy.” Through the bars, the store owner stroked the bird’s head with the back of his knuckle. “Even knows when to apologize. You can see, he’s a very smart bird.”
She removed her checkbook and walked to the cash register. After licking her thumb, she flipped to the back of the book. Although she had received a healthy settlement and could easily afford the high price of the bird, she still felt moved to negotiate a better price. “Who shall I make this out to?”
“Aquatics and Exotics.” He scratched his cheek while he watched her write the check.
Before signing she added, “Throw in the cage and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
The store owner made a sour face and choked it. He held out his palm and nodded with reluctance. “You’re lucky it’s Christmas.”
She made Christoph cover his eyes while she wheeled the cage into the living room. “It’s an African Grey.” She unveiled the parrot. “They can live to be 70.”
Christoph eyed the bird. He looked at its white face and black eyes, the grey feathers that wracked his body, the flair of vermilion on his tail. To Christoph the bird seemed pretty simple for a rare thing from Africa. “That’s a long commitment,” he said.
His mother put her hand inside the cage. “The man at the store said these birds are as smart as dolphins, can learn over 800 words.” She put her finger in front of his legs, pushed her knuckles into his breast until he perched on her hand. “Here.” She placed the parrot before him.
The bird bobbed his head and sunk his beak into his feathers. He hopped onto Christoph’s broken hand. Christoph tried to recoil but the hand wouldn’t move. The bird sidestepped the length of the defective arm and settled on his shoulder. He polished his beak against Christoph’s shirt. The bird rocked and leaned his head into Christoph’s neck.
“He likes you.”
Christoph smiled at the thought of having something as smart as a dolphin on his shoulder.
“Tu tu tu,” the parrot said.
“Is that Spanish?”
“Si. Yup. Yeah,” the bird said.
Christoph brought his hand to the bird’s head and let him nuzzle his fingers. “I think he’s speaking Spanish.”
“The pet store said they mimic all sorts of sounds. Phones, door bells, cars.” She went to pet the bird. It dodged her hand and hopped closer to Christoph. “Look at him. He really likes you.”
Christoph let his smile go wider. With the bird on his shoulder he couldn’t think about his damaged body. “I’m going to name him Tutu,” he said.
That night he put Tutu’s cage next to his bed. Christoph didn’t like the thought of Tutu locked and confined; he left the door open so Tutu could roam as he pleased. That morning, Christoph woke to find Tutu balanced on the corner of the night stand, cocking his head, waiting to be petted.
So it goes: Christoph loved Tutu. Tutu loved the park. Christoph took Tutu to the park.
Everyday Christoph walked the promenade with Tutu on his shoulder. Christoph enjoyed their strolls. For reasons unknown to him, the park was full of other freaks with rare animals. There were invalids, veterans, and day drunks, a zoo of exotic bodies.
There was the tattooed lady with dreadlocked hair that always rollerbladed near the fountain in her swimsuit. She would skate in small circles with a python scarfed tight around her head. There was the toothless man who wore nothing but denim. Shirt and vest and USA ball cap, all denim. He sat on the gazebo steps, his iguana clawing against his pant leg. He kept it on a leash, the collar made of stitched denim.
Christoph enjoyed the spectacle. He liked how nobody noticed him. At the park no one paid attention to his arm or asked how he got his scars. Instead, all eyes and questions were focused on Tutu.
“How much did he cost?”
“Too much,” Tutu would say.
“Can he cuss?”
“Hell yeah,” Tutu would say.
“Make him say something.”
Tutu would shake his head and the crowd would laugh.
“What does he eat?”
“You name it,” Tutu would say.
So like he’d done before, after walking the length of the park, and after taking a moment to let Tutu preen in the sun and talk to the crowd, Christoph began his trip home. He stood at the street corner, waiting for the traffic signal to change. But on this particular day, unlike all the others, Tutu decided to mimic the chirping sound of the crosswalk. With perfect pitch, timbre, and volume, Tutu parroted the crosswalk alarm. Three impeccable chirps. Pause and repeat.
Christoph smiled at Tutu’s accuracy with the noise. Just like the real thing, he thought. Like to see Flipper do that. He figured Tutu deserved a sunflower seed. As Christoph reached into his pocket, a blind man mistook Tutu’s noise for his signal to cross. The blind man confidently stepped into the intersection, directly into the path of the Fourth Street express bus. With the impact, the blind man’s body exploded into flaps of clothing and skin. A mist of blood hissed on the crosswalk. Pieces of cloth flapped in the air like dead leaves.
Tutu stopped chirping.
A crowd vultured around the fresh body. One woman kept whimpering, “Oh Jesus, Christ, Jesus,” while most of the crowd gasped and held the sides of their heads. Some of them began to search the scene. Their eyes looked for something, anything, to blame.
Through the air, Christoph felt the weight of their stares. It burrowed into his belly. His breath quickened and he scratched at his damaged arm. He took Tutu from his shoulder and placed him on the edge of the curb. He walked away briskly, leaving the bird to preen its blood-splattered breast.
Because a jury of peers could not be found, Tutu’s judgment was biblical in its swiftness.
Presiding was the Honorable Tal Dipple. Along with his reputation for dealing spartan discipline, he was also known for his narrow-set eyes, small ears, and propensity for courtroom perspiration. Beneath his robe he wore a necktie cinched so tight it strangled his throat. It forced his neck skin to spill over his shirt collar, making his face flush with blood. Tiny-eared and red-faced as he was, he maintained the constant appearance of a wailing infant.
“You’re telling me this bird premeditated Robert Martin’s murder?” Judge Dipple said to the prosecutor.
“Yes, Your Honor. You can clearly see in the Wikipedia article I printed out these animals are extremely intelligent.”
Judge Dipple held his readers up to his face.
“Please note that under the heading Mimicry and Intelligence, the article states performs cognitive tasks.” The prosecutor took a dainty sip from a water glass. He cleared his throat. “Cognitive, Your Honor.”
“Objection,” the defense said.
Looking down from the bench, Judge Dipple examined Tutu. He did not like the way the bird disrespected his court. His claws wrote illiterate scratches into the lacquered table. His beak was prone to fits of squawking. He didn’t like the way the bird kept hopping in circles, pecking at the lead fishing weight crimped to his leg. But most of all, Judge Dipple hated Tutu’s round black eyes. He disliked how tight and focused they were, how they looked on him with objective indifference.
Nobody looks through me, Dipple thought. Not in my court. He ran his finger under his collar. “Overruled.”
The prosecutor went on. “He planned the death of poor, blind Mr. Martin. How else could the impossible timing be explained? From the report, it’s evident that this bird has not the mind of some feathered beast, but bears the intelligence of a dolphin.” The prosecutor pointed at his temple for added effect. Then he pointed at Tutu. “He has the brain equivalent of a child. Should we not hold children responsible?”
Tutu did not object. Instead he tongued at his ankle. Tutu’s attorney tried to settle him but Tutu remained nervous. He would not take his gaze from the judge.
Judge Dipple began to simmer. He couldn’t recall the last time somebody looked at him like that. Eyes cold and fearless. He could not think back far enough. And this failed effort made his anger grow. Sweat collected on his eyebrows until it pulled from his face. He watched the bird bite at the ankle weight.
“Your Honor,” the defense said, “it’s obvious my client is under extreme emotional unrest. He was found abandoned, quivering. Covered in blood. In shock. The unfortunate accident at the park has rendered him unable to speak coherently. Look at him.”
Tutu hopped and caught sight of Christoph in the audience. His head perked. “Chris-top?” Tutu said. “Chris-top?” In the back of the courtroom, Christoph slid down in his pew.
“Help,” Tutu said. He bit at his ankle weight and twitched his leg. “Help, help, help.”
Christoph tore his eyes from Tutu. He dropped his head.
“Your Honor.” The prosecutor removed his glasses. He raised his voice over the bird’s. “Those were the same cries heard at the scene of the crime.” He pointed his glasses at Tutu. “The crowd screamed ‘Help!’ as they ran to the slaughter stream that was once poor Robert Martin—a defenseless blind man. This sick beast is trying to relive the carnage of that day. He’s trying to revisit the crime.” As if to plead, the prosecutor placed his hands under his chin. “Serial murderers do the same thing.”
The Judge dabbed his hot, red forehead. He mopped the sweat from his lip.
Tutu snapped his head. He periscoped his neck, focusing on a leg of sweat trembling from the judge’s face. Tutu lowered his beak and leaned toward the judge with his ebony eye.
Judge Dipple was ignorant of the behavior of birds. He did not understand that in order to focus on anything in detail, a bird must cock its head. He did not know the twinkling pearl of sweat on his forehead wiggled down his face in the manner of a mealworm. He didn’t realize Tutu was curious why a man might have worms on his face. All Judge Dipple saw was the excruciating intensity of Tutu’s black caviar eye. This bird was sizing him up. This bird was judging him.
“Guilty,” he said, as he clapped his gavel with such force that the sound block lifted into the air. “Bailiff, get this animal out of my court.”
As a corrections officer, Hiram was accustomed to the bizarre. But this was the first literal animal to come through his cafeteria.
It was Wednesday, which meant they were serving Navajo tacos. The inmates were in high spirits. Hiram was not.
“150% capacity and they got the nerve to send me a bird,” he said. “Kind of horseshit is that?”
The cafeteria cook perceived this as rhetorical and did not answer. Instead, he placed a piece of fry bread on a plate and slopped it with taco meat.
Hiram watched the bird hop into the serving line. The parrot perched himself between two food trays. His claws clinked against the aluminum bars. Tutu rocked his head up and down, eyeing the foreign food. He leaned his eye toward a pile of diced tomato.
“What do I give him?” the cook said. He wiped his hands on his apron. “He on dietary restrictions? Never fed no bird before.”
Hiram let his wrist dangle over the taser on his belt. He tugged his mouth to the side. “Like I know?” If the cafeteria were a gladiator arena, Hiram was the emperor. He took pride in keeping a clean, tidy stage. Hiram rocked his weight from leg to leg. He nodded toward the right. “Give him some salad or something.”
The cook shrugged and made a plate. He reached his arm over the sneeze guard and placed the food before the bird. “Here little guy. Chef’s special.”
Tutu hopped to the plate’s edge. He ran his beak across the wet strips of lettuce. His feathers flared. He scratched at his beak.
“I don’t think he likes it,” the cook said.
“This look like a buffet?” Hiram said. “He takes his shit like everyone else. Or go hungry for all I care.”
One of the prisoners took a tomato off his plate. He cradled it in his palm, held it out for Tutu. “Where you from partner? How’d you land in a nest like this?”
Tutu lowered his head. He eyed the food with caution.
“Here,” the inmate said. He waited for the bird to take the food from his hand. “I ain’t bite you. There you go. Nice, huh? You want another?”
Tutu took pleasure in the cool tomato. His feathers flattened and shined a brilliant grey. He swayed and let the inmate pet the side of his head.
“Don’t fuck with my bird, Peanut. I’ll bust a ruckus in your ass.” Hiram flexed his hands against his belt.
“I wasn’t meaning no harm, boss. He wants a tomato.”
“Touch him again,” Hiram said.
The inmate glanced away before leaving the line.
After swallowing the delicious gift, Tutu let out a melodic chirp. A beautiful noise floated above the scraping plates and the cafeteria chatter. Tutu pressed his head against the glass and sang. His talon reached for the tomatoes.
“Look now, see. Got him all riled up.”
Tutu hopped forward. He tapped his beak on the sneeze guard. His tongue snubbed against the glass.
“Enough,” Hiram said. He wouldn’t stand for this childish behavior, even from a bird. “I said that’s enough.”
But Tutu kept on.
Hiram hated animals. His whole life he’d had one pet. And even that was short-lived. When he was a child, his neighbor’s cat had a tremendous litter. They couldn’t give them away. Hiram asked his father for a kitten.
“Dirty filthy things,” his father had said. “I’m pulling doubles to put a roof over your head. Your mother breaks her back in there, keeping it clean. And you want to invite animals into our house?” His father’s mind was set.
That same week, at the county fair, Hiram was drawn to a carnival game. A kiddie pool was filled with water and seeded with a school of live goldfish. For three tickets he could reach into the pool and keep anything he grabbed. Packs of children gathered around the pool, plunging their fists, savagely punching at the water. Hiram paid the attendant and took his place at the edge of the pool. He licked his lips and rolled up his sleeve. He knelt and peered into the sloshing water. Golden fish scales glittered on the waves. He watched the fish, studied their behavior. They huddled into orange clouds; they scattered and regrouped. Hiram held his hand above the water, waiting like a hunter, holding the air in his lungs. As a milk-skinned boy splashed the opposite side of the pool, sending the fish in a feverish escape, Hiram knifed his hand in the water. He pulled his fist from the pool. He opened his hand to find two fish skittering in his palm. Two! He cupped the fish gently, like he was nesting a baby bird. He presented his catch to the carnival worker who tossed the fish in a plastic bread bag. The man filled the bag with water from the pool and knotted the top. He held the bag out for Hiram. “Winner, winner,” he said. “Fish for dinner.”
Hiram kept the fish under his coat when he got home. He took his mother’s glass Jell-O mold and layered the bottom with pebbles from the garden. He poured cool water into the bowl. Up in his room, he slowly shook the fish into their new home. He set the fishbowl on the carpet. Hiram lay on his belly and rested his head in his palms. His eyes watched the fish mouth at the water. He watched them swim to the bottom and nibble at the pebbles.
“I’ll call you Batman,” he told the bigger of the two. He pressed his finger against the bowl. “And you can be Robin, since you’re smaller.” Late into the night he watched Batman and Robin flap and dart. He watched them kiss the water’s surface. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. He could hardly believe they were his.
On his way home from school, Hiram used his allowance to buy fish flakes. He held the tube of fish food in his hand like a sprinter’s baton. He ran the length of sidewalk to his house. He was eager to feed the duo. As soon as he passed the threshold of his home, his father called him into the bathroom.
“Look what you did,” he said. “Look at your mama’s Jell-O mold.” He pointed to the fishbowl on the counter. “Look at the mess you made.”
Hiram kept his eyes on the clean linoleum floor.
“See what happens when we have pets?”
Hiram nodded.
His father lifted the toilet seat. “Go on.”
Hiram didn’t move. He scratched at his shin with the toe of his sneaker.
His father took a knee in front of Hiram. He took the boy by the chin and forced him to look him in the face. “I am your father,” he said. His anger kept his mouth tight as he spoke. “And you know my mind. Go on.” He shook the boy’s face as he let go of his chin.
Hiram cupped his hand in the fishbowl. He waited for Batman and Robin to eddy into his palm before he ladled them out of the bowl. As gentle as he did at the fair, he brought his fish to the toilet bowl. He poured them from his hands. Their tails flapped, as if shocked by the coolness of the porcelain. They swam the circumference of the bowl.
“Rules are rules,” his father said.
Hiram swallowed. He watched the fish peck at the surface.
“Go on. Come ahead now.”
Hiram could feel the unopened fish food in his back pocket. He just wanted to feed them, to see them dance around collecting the flakes. The thought of it made his chin shake.
“Get on with it.”
Hiram did not look away. As the water flushed he watched them fight against the current. He watched as their sparkled bodies swirled into darkness.
Tutu raked his beak through the plate of lettuce. He chirped and shook his head. Lettuce flung across the counter. He rained salad to the floor.
“I don’t think he likes it,” the cook said. “I got seeds in the pantry.”
“No,” Hiram said. “Bird’s going to learn to keep clean. He’ll eat every scrap he gets.” Hiram went to Tutu. He took a pen from his breast pocket and forced the bird’s mouth open. “Eat.” He shoved a pinch of lettuce into the beak.
Tutu screeched and flapped his wings. His tongue fought against the pen. Lettuce flew from the plate. Hiram packed the beak with more. “I said eat it.”
As he put his fingers in the bird’s mouth his pen slipped. Taking advantage of the momentary freedom, Tutu clamped down on Hiram’s pinkie. His beak snapped through the skin like teeth through a cooked sausage. He clawed at Hiram’s hand and vised his beak down to the bone. Hiram tugged his hand free. The tip of his finger dangled from the knuckle. Tutu jumped to the floor. He scuttled to the corner and rolled onto his back, claws out. Beak open and ready to fight. As Hiram’s scream melted with the shouts and animal roar of the cafeteria hall, Tutu shook with fear.
Interview with Dr. Preston Beamon, Animal Psychologist
Q. Now, in your own words, why are you here?
A. ---
Q. You understand you’re safe here, Tutu. You can open up to me. Feel free to explore, to express yourself. Now, with those ground rules, tell me, what did you do?
A. ---
Q. Alright, I see. Right. You haven’t done anything, so you have nothing to say. Now we’re getting somewhere. You feel innocent. I get that. Then how has this experience changed you? How has your incarceration shaped you as a bird?
A. ---
Q. Hmmm. I understand it’s a tough question. It requires us to look inside ourselves. And that can be a scary place. Hey, it’s still scary for me to explore my inner space. Some frightening things in there. Perhaps there’s a mother who wouldn’t give us approval? A father who wasn’t there? Did an uncle touch us in a bad way? I’ve heard it all, Tutu. I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to help you … discover you. Okay?
A. ---
Q. So what I want you to do is close your eyes. Go on. Close them. Picture yourself at a park, or at the beach—really any place you like—somewhere outside these walls. Can you picture it? Do you have your place?
A. ---
Q. Now, in the surrounding comfort of that place, wherever that may be, I want you to look down inside yourself. Go on and get in there. I’ll give you a moment. Got it?
A. ---
Q. Now tell me what’s down there. Don’t be afraid, Tutu. What do you see?
A. ---
Q. Tutu. I’m a patient man. You can sit there and blink at me all you want. But I am going to reach you. You understand that, right?
A. ---
Q. You can be a tough guy. That’s fine. But you must realize that without an answer, I have to notate that you’re unwilling to cooperate. “Inmate was unresponsive when questioned. Inmate showed no outward signs of remorse.” Is that fair, accurate?
A. ---
Q. Look, I’ve been more than clear that I’m a friend here. So I’m picking up my pen and asking you one last time. What have you learned from your experience here?
A. ---
Q. Have it your way. I’m taking note of this … Alright, let’s move on. I’m not saying this was a failure, just an area for us to improve. It’s an area of opportunity, okay?
A. ---
Q. Fine, look, let’s try an exercise. Just a second, let me grab my briefcase … Now, this appears to be an orange. It is round, orange in color. When you smell it … it smells citrusy. By all empirical measures this is an orange. Heck, I pulled it out of my lunch bag, right?
A. ---
Q. But in all seriousness, Tutu, this is not an orange. Let’s imagine this is your anger. Everybody, myself included, has some amount of hate inside. And our hate and anger has a source. It can be from something we don’t understand or something we fear. Sometimes it’s passed down from our parents. So what I want you to do is take all your anger and pull it from yourself. Release all your hatred and put it into this orange. Here, I’ll put the orange in front of you so you can project onto it. Take time to channel your anger into the object … Have you emptied yourself?
A. ---
Q. I’ll take that as a yes. Now, what do you want to say to your anger?
A. ---
Q. Tutu, please. Will you please not peck at the orange?
A. ---
Q. Come on, Tutu. I want you to speak to your anger. Hey, come on. We’re not supposed to eat our anger. You’re getting juice everywhere. We don’t want to put the hate back inside you. Understand?
A. ---
Q. Hey, stop that. I said quit it. Stop biting the anger. Give me back my orange.
A. ---
Q. Christ. He bit me. Goddamn bird just—son of a bitch bit me. Carl? Can you restrain him? Shit. I’m bleeding. Hey, I’m bleeding here, man. Can we get something—now?
A. ---
Two inmates sat in the yard smoking menthols down to the filters.
“The fuck is up with that bird?” the first one said.
“Who, Lil’ Rich? He’s cool.”
“No, the bird. That actual bird.” He pointed his cigarette at the base of the concrete wall. Tutu huddled there, plucking his feathers. He shook his head and combed his beak through the dirt.
“Man, you don’t know Big Bird?”
“That his real name?”
“Hell if I know? Nobody knows his name. I’ve been here a nickel, ain’t heard him say a word.” The second inmate ashed his cigarette downwind. “We call him Big Bird, on account that’s one bird you don’t fuck with.”
“For real?”
“Man, you too new to be this stupid. I heard that little birdie straight killed a man. Made one guard transfer out.” He held up his hand and pulled on his pinkie. “Popped it right off.”
“For real?”
“Already burned through three psychologists. Won’t even see him anymore. Can’t crack that nut.”
They watched the parrot rake through the dirt. Tutu held a jagged rock in his beak. He touched the rock’s surface with his tongue. When he realized it wasn’t a seed, he shook his head and picked up another pebble.
“What you think he’s doing?” the first inmate said.
The second inmate drew from his cigarette. “Probably figuring who to fuck with next.” He exhaled through his nostrils. “All I know, you see Big Bird come around, you better act right.”
Tutu hopped to a sunny patch of dirt. He closed his eyes and absorbed the heat. His feathers rippled in the wind. A guard wearing leather gloves approached. As the guard came near he slowed and took on a cautious demeanor. He looked ready to wrangle a python.
“What’s all that noise?” the first inmate said.
The second inmate laughed. “Maybe he got a visitor.” Tutu sensed the guard’s footsteps. He stretched his wings to their limit and the guard recoiled.
“Look at that fool,” the second inmate said. “Scared as shit.”
The first inmate shook his head. “Why don’t he fly away? Man, I had his wings, I’d be gone.”
As the guard reached toward Tutu again, Tutu gracefully perched himself on the outstretched glove. There was a reverence in the way the guard held the bird. He carried him like he was the Ark, as if the bird contained some unknown power. For a brief moment the yard fell silent. The men racked their weights and ceased their games. They all watched as the guard carried him like a standard. The second inmate felt small in the presence of such a grand thing. He rubbed the side of his face. “Even if they weren’t clipped,” he said, “where would he go?”
The prison guard removed the receiver from its cradle and placed it in front of Tutu. “Three minutes,” the guard said. “I’m to inform you this conversation is monitored.” He left the bird to speak with his visitor.
On the other side of the glass was a peculiar looking man. Tutu stretched to look him over. Although he appeared youthful, the man’s hair was thinning. Beneath two strange, longing eyes hung dark bags of skin. The visitor hugged the phone between his shoulder and ear. With his good hand he hoisted his left arm onto the ledge. It rested there motionless.
Tutu angled his head to the side. His eyes glossed with memory. “Christoph.”
“Hello, Tutu. Been a long time.”
Seeing his friend so old and unfamiliar put Tutu at a loss for words.
“Look at you. You look good.” Christoph tried to smile but only his cheeks moved. “I’m not sure why I waited so long. I guess I knew I wouldn’t have anything good to say.”
Tutu leaned low toward the glass. He wanted to tell Christoph that he still remembered the good times. He wanted to talk about the promenade and the clean air. But he knew there wasn’t time for sentiment. Christoph wasn’t here for that.
“So …” Christoph cleared his throat. “Mom died.”
“Oh, Christoph.” Tutu thought of the first time he saw her from behind the bars of his birdcage, in the back of that cluttered pet store. He remembered her kindness. And the kindness Christoph first showed him. Tutu clicked his tongue.
Christoph’s face screwed to the side. “I’ve been a terrible friend.” He began to cry. “That should be me in there.” Tutu tilted his head.
“I could have said something but I didn’t. You asked for my help but I just sat there.”
“Christoph.” Tutu lowered his head.
“No, listen.” Christoph smeared tears across his cheek. “I can make it up to you. What if I could get you out of here? You could come live with me. And I could take you back to the park, like we used to. I still have your old cage in the garage.”
Tutu shook his head. “No, Christoph.”
Christoph placed the phone on his other ear. He searched Tutu’s face, trying to understand the bird. But he could not. So his face slid into an expression of deep sadness.
It was a look Tutu knew. It reminded him of the ferrets and the mice of the pet store, the beasts in their cages. And it reminded him of the animals he lived with now. All those sad faces dreaming of flight.
“Sorry,” Tutu said. He waddled closer and cocked his head toward his old friend. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
Behind him the guard unlocked the door. It groaned against the hinges as he entered to take the bird away.
“Wait, Tutu?” Christoph yelled into the phone but there was no reply. He wrapped on the glass and called to him again but there was nothing. The line had gone silent.